


The Two Garridebs

by SophiaBoo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Fluff, M/M, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaBoo/pseuds/SophiaBoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's up to Sherlock to take care of John's broken heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

Sherlock looked up from his laptop and stared at the sofa for long seconds. That walking pace could only pertain to one person, someone he hadn’t seen for a full two months.  
When John Watson entered the room, Sherlock was already on his feet and facing the window. He could tell what was wrong. To be honest, he thought, it wasn’t even needed to be the world’s only consulting detective to notice it. The mere fact that his best friend was visiting him, especially at these late hours, was extremely telling. And worrying, he then added.  
‘I’m sorry I’m here at this time of night,’ John said with a thin voice. It wasn’t tiredness. ‘Sherlock…’  
He finally turned to face the doctor.  
‘And I’m sorry you had a row with your wife.’  
John didn’t look surprised. He also knew the reason of his visit was evident.  
But it hadn’t been like any other row.  
Sherlock decided to say that out loud. John nodded.  
They both took a step forward and froze. The taller man frowned as the shorter made a face.  
‘May I come in?’  
‘Of course,’ Sherlock said. ‘Of course, John.’  
‘Cheers…’ John’s voice was growing weaker with each sentence. He sat on the sofa and sighed loudly. Sherlock approached carefully, awaiting the slightest signal informing that it was okay to sit next to him. This finally came in the form of a look. John looked up at him and it was enough for Sherlock to catch his meaning. They sat together without making eye contact, just staring at the nothingness of the flat in silence.  
John was the one to finally break it.  
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘Sherlock, I had nowhere else to go.’  
‘It’s okay,’ his friend reassured him with a deep voice. ‘What happened?’  
The blond snorted. ‘I thought you knew by now.’  
‘Well…’ He could see a few things. But he wanted to hear it all from John.  
‘We indeed had a row. It started as a small one, a simple domestic… Didn’t think it would come to that.’  
He turned his face to meet Sherlock’s eyes, his own already filled with tears. Sherlock panicked.  
‘She left, Sherlock.’ His voice broke and his face melted.  
‘John…’ He felt a pinch in his stomach. His friend looked like shit. He started sobbing and that new sound was instantly unbearable.  
John’s head was on his chest before he could even make up what to do. Thank goodness his arms responded and he was able to hold the poor man as he completely fell to pieces under his embrace. The sobs didn’t seem to be ending any time soon so they stayed like that for about two minutes. Sherlock’s shirt was all wet but that didn’t matter at all. He let John cry his heart out all he wanted, despite the fact that the sound was hammering his eardrums. He took mental note to never have to hear that sound again. He would make sure of that. He dared to simply touch the crown of John’s head with the lightest of touches and felt him pause the sobbing under him for a few seconds, then the hiccups started and he didn’t go back to the sobs again. This surprised Sherlock.  
His hand was still on John’s head. He now tried moving his fingers very softly. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he had caressed anyone, apart from, maybe, Mrs Hudson. This felt different, though, in a good way. He couldn’t make out why at the moment.  
John shivered and growled, and after a few seconds his voice sounded like the John Sherlock knew when he said: ‘Fuck, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.’  
‘Stop saying sorry,’ his friend told him with a purr. John finally looked up; his eyes were red and raw, but still beautifully blue, even under the light of that shitty lamp Sherlock hated so much.  
‘I’m sorry,’ John whispered and laughed. ‘I shouldn’t be laughing.’  
‘Why not? She’ll come around, John.’  
‘I don’t know, it looked pretty… final.’  
‘I take it she took the baby.’  
John couldn’t speak again. He nodded. Sherlock was still caressing his head, but John didn’t seem to mind at all. He gave the detective a sad smile.  
‘Is it okay if I stay for the night?’  
‘Well… If you don’t mind getting rid of all the trash first, yes, you can take your bedroom.’  
John smiled. ‘I missed you.’  
‘You keep rewarding me with the most surprising of reactions to my behaviour, John.’  
They shared a laugh and Sherlock took his arms off John, but the latter didn’t move immediately.  
‘Was that the first time you hugged me?’ John inquired with a playful smile.  
‘Um, maybe.’  
‘You didn’t have to, you know.’  
‘So give it back, then.’  
To his disbelief, John laughed again. ‘Nah, we got too mushy there for a whole year, mate.’  
Sherlock blinked a couple times. He was pleased to see how little it took him to make John laugh, even in these times. He smiled.  
‘I was joking about the trash in your room. I made Mrs Hudson keep it as good as new.’  
John made a funny face. ‘You move me.’  
He walked towards the bathroom and said: ‘Is it okay if I…?’  
‘Stop asking for permission, it’s irritating.’ Sherlock interrupted him.  
John turned around without stopping his walk. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled mischievously and closed the door behind him. Sherlock let out a huge sigh and proceeded to take all the body parts off the kitchen table, smiling a bit himself.


	2. Day 2

When John woke up, it took him a while to remember what had happened the night before. He could remember Sherlock hugging him as he damped his purple shirt. He had felt embarrassed but that hadn’t helped him keep the tears in. And soon, as his friend had slowly and tenderly caressed his head, he had felt calm again. He had probably been needing that, he thought.

And then he finally remembered Mary. How she had looked at him with those big blue eyes, and told him that was it, that she couldn’t take it anymore. He wondered for how long Mary had been wanting to walk away from him. The row they’d had… That couldn’t be enough. Not even many of those through time. Because that’s what couples did, right? They had rows and they shouted mean things at each other, threw things at each other, even, but still… They stayed together, because love kept them like that. And probably also a baby in common. But not even Emma’s beautiful round and red face, wet from all the tears, not even her cries as they shouted horrible things at each other, helped Mary soften a bit. Instead, she had grabbed her by her chubby arms and taken her away from his dad for God knew how long. 

John’s heart was hurting. He felt a knot in his throat. A few tears landed on his pillow as he grabbed it and then drowned a few sobs with it.

When he found the strength to get up, he made his way to the bathroom with a storm of yawns coming out of him. He hadn’t slept well, as expected. But every dream he had managed to have involved Sherlock. This was maybe due to the fact that his mind didn’t want the image of Mary bugging him, and it was bloody right. This didn’t quite explain why his friend was hugging him in his dreams, though. He decided the reason for that was simply the novelty of his brainy best friend doing so for the first time since they had met years ago, but still he thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to tell him about any of this. He brushed his teeth and washed his face while trying to remember if he had brought his mobile phone with him last night. He had left in a rush, taken a cab and shouted “221 Baker Street” at the cabbie without even pondering on it. He hadn’t been sure how Sherlock would take his visit, but he had been certain of one thing: he only wanted to see him and no one else. Two months was a shitty ass long time, he thought. He was, taking aside all the bad things that had brought him back there, glad to be flat-sharing with Sherlock Holmes again.

John opened the bathroom door and stepped out hoping the red eyes weren’t too noticeable, but as he walked into the kitchen, he felt a sudden need for Sherlock to be aware of his every thought. He wanted to know what his take on the matter was. “She’ll come around”, he had whispered the night before, but how could he be so sure? His wife was a deathly assassin (John wasn’t ready to let that sink in as of yet), she had a dark past that could come and hunt her any minute. And Emma was with her now, God knew where. Things weren’t okay. He let a new stream of warm tears run down his cheeks and he took hold of the counter.

“Shit”, he let out.

“John?” Sherlock’s thin figure appeared in his field of vision and as soon as it did, John decided it was best not to show.

He quickly turned and wiped the tears away.

“Morning, mate.” His face formed an attempt of a smile and Sherlock obviously picked up on its fakeness.

“Good morning,” he smiled, but sincerely. He was already wearing his suit. “You didn’t sleep at all.” 

It wasn’t a question.

“I did sleep, for maybe two hours,” he said, “but that was it.”

John was sure he didn’t buy a word, but still replied: “Okay, well… I made breakfast… I think.”

John let out a laugh. “You think?” He turned to the messy kitchen table. “I’m sorry but you failed miserably.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smiled. “There.” He pointed to the living room table with his head.

There was a blue tablecloth set on one corner of it (Sherlock’s laptop funnily stuffed on the other side along with a gazillion of other things), where he had carefully placed a plate and a cup of tea to its side, on a smaller plate.

“Sherlock…” John had lost his ability to form words, apart from what he was seeing. “Sausages, baked beans, fried egg, tomatoes, fried mushrooms, toasts…”

“Buttered toasts,” Sherlock corrected him somewhere at his left.

“How--?”

“This is what Mrs Hudson usually makes you when you’re having a tough day.”

This was hardly comparable to any of his normal tough days, but he couldn’t hide his stupid smile nonetheless.

“Thank you. You shouldn’t have…”

“Of course I didn’t possess any of these things myself so I had to go and prepare this in her kitchen.”

John sat down and grabbed the fork. “Then we’re going grocery shopping after I finish. For us and for her.”

“I have a case going on, I can’t possibly—“

John was looking up at him flabbergasted, a mouthful of beans in his mouth.

“What?” Sherlock made a face.

“Nothing,” replied John. “I find it a novelty you went and made breakfast for me while being on a case.”

Sherlock didn’t reply immediately. “Well, you did cry on my chest last night.”

John accommodated himself on the seat while setting down the fork he was about to take to his mouth.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry about that.”

Then he heard Sherlock sigh. “John, you keep apologizing...”

The blonde felt the need to reply to that, but all that occurred to him was another big fat Sorry, so he shut his mouth and kept eating instead.

“Is it good?” Sherlock wanted to know a few minutes later. He was now sitting on the other chair and his expression denoted he was expecting his friend to die any second.

“Delicious.”

“Well, there’s no need to exaggerate.”

They exchanged a fond smile and the detective left his piercing eyes placed on John’s, who had to look down at his already halfway eaten breakfast and cough again.

“So… what’s this one about?”

In a rare episode, his friend leant back on his chair. His head looking up and his long figure spread beneath the table. His legs were now touching John’s, but neither of them shifted. Sherlock sighed again, longer this time, and closed his eyes.

“That is the weirdest I’ve ever seen you going into your mind fucking palace.”

“My mind fucking palace?” repeated Sherlock, and John blinked a couple of times. His stomach was shrunk enough to happily accept any more food so he took a long sip of his tea instead.

“Are you expecting me to apologize now?”

“I could flush your mobile phone down the toilet if you dare to do it again,” he warned with his eyes still placidly closed.

“Wait, you have my mobile phone?”

“You left it in the confinements of our sofa last night.”

John picked up on the word ‘our’, but said nothing. Instead, he gave his friend a murderous look and warned with a very dangerous but calmed tone: “Give it back, Sherlock.”

“Nobody called, anyway. Why would you want it?” He said this very quickly.

“Why would you?” The doctor was finding it hard to keep his cool.

He didn’t reply.

“Mycroft somehow thought his fourth attempt at giving me a knighthood would be successful.”

John looked at the nothingness of their flat.

“What’s it got to do with anything?”

“I’m attempting conversation.”

“You’re changing the subject,” John corrected him.

“Yes.”

John inhaled and exhaled with extreme composure and finished his tea.

“So… Is it about Moriarty, then?”

“No.” Sherlock frowned. “Haven’t heard from him since that letter. No point giving it any thought.”

“LETTER?!” He had a very good reason to finally lose it, he thought. “What fucking letter?”

“Oh.”

“Yes, fucking oh, indeed.”

“I thought I told you about it?”

“You bloody didn’t.”

“You said I shouldn’t take it lightly?”

“That never fucking happened, Sherlock.” John got up and started walking about. He was now furious.

Sherlock still didn’t open his eyes, but his face was red now and his mouth only a line.

After a few moments he spoke again, this time a whimper: “On the mantelpiece, under the knife.”

“Fucking found it already.”

The sleuth finally opened his eyes, his confusion evident.

“Oh. Good.”

“I.O.U.” John read carefully, forgetting to sound irritated for a moment.


	3. Day 2 (IOU)

“What is this? Sherlock? What does this mean?”

The brunet got up and joined him just as John looked up from the letter.

“That’s all it says.” John’s eyes seemed filled with questions and fear.

“I know,” Sherlock whispered.

“I owe you?” he concluded, this time giving the phrase a different accentuation, and looked up and down between his friend and the letters written in thin ink on the yellow sheet.

Sherlock swallowed. “Maybe…”

“Sher—“

“It’s really nothing. Can we go back to--?”

“How can it not be anything? This is clearly a warning.” His voice high-pitched with urgency.

“What do you expect me to do?”

“You clearly think this is him!” John was shouting at this point. “You just said you hadn’t heard from him… since this.” He pointed at the text and took a deep breath through his nose. “The fact that you never assume tells me there is an obvious reason for this to be Moriarty. What is it, then?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted just a teensy bit.

“Did I say something funny?” John was smiling too but his was his trademark I’m going to fucking murder you smile.

“Nothing funny. Maybe just… congratulations on a brilliant piece of deduction.”

John said nothing for a moment, then he declared:

“This is still a game. Between you two.”  
“No…”

“You still find his puzzles attractive.” He marked the last word with disgust in his voice.

“No.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock, I know how you function. I know what kind of things you like.”

Sherlock made a face.

“You’re quite wrong, John.”

“Ha.” He handed the sheet back to Sherlock with a violent hit on his friend’s stomach and turned his back on him. “I texted you like… twenty times? For the past two months. If it wasn’t for Mrs Hudson I would’ve thought you were dead, again. I want to help. Stop leaving me out of it, Sherlock.”

His heart was pounding in his chest.

“I’m sorry, John. I—“

“You say…” John turned to face him again, pointing a finger at him. “You say it’s nothing, right? But you leave me out of it. Why?”

They stared at each other for long seconds, Sherlock’s face was that of a beaten man.

“Don’t.” John’s word caught him off guard this time.

“What?”

“I won’t buy it.” He was smiling again.

Sherlock swallowed.

“What else can it be?” His voice a very deep one.

John’s face was bare. “Okay.” Sherlock seemed estranged at that. “Okay.”

The detective didn’t dare to speak now. He followed the shorter one with his eyes as he walked heavily from the kitchen and back to the mantelpiece.

“Just be honest about this one thing. Would you please do that?”

Sherlock looked down and nodded weakly, John’s question already resounding inside his skull.

“Is my daughter in danger?”

Sherlock looked up at him again. He had been expecting family. John Watson kept surprising him.

John’s eyes were already filling with tears and Sherlock could take it no more.

“Not anymore.”

“Pardon?”

“She’s safe. They are bringing her over.”

John’s heavy breathing was the only sound they could hear for a couple of seconds. He suppressed the most obvious questions as he answered them himself and was left with only one.

“Mary?”

Sherlock Holmes kept his promise and stayed honest.

“I don’t know, John.”

“Okay.” He let out a tiny moan which he tried to cover with a cough but Sherlock’s quick hand was already grabbing his arm, which John grabbed tightly in return and looked up at his best friend. “Thank you.”

Sherlock fought hard to regain composure.

With a firm voice he said: “Emma will stay in safe hands until this is over, but you can go and see her this afternoon if you want. We… had no other news on Moriarty since this letter, but I’m sure your wife did, yesterday.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John shut his eyes close.

“I trust you had worked it out, already?”

“But I wanted it not to be true.” He laughed sarcastically. “How could it not be? I bet you figured it out way faster than I did.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but it wasn’t necessary.

“We would argue about nothing, day after day. I didn’t keep anything in, though. She had fucking lied to me after all.”

“It’s okay, John.” Sherlock didn’t want him to talk about it. “It’s going to be okay. Emma’s safe and she’ll remain that way. If anyone lays a finger on her, or even tries…”

John opened his eyes and made a very serious face.

“Did she… hurt anyone?”

“Well, she’s very good.” Sherlock smiled, but then his expression saddened.

“What the fuck is she into, Sherlock?”

“Don’t do this to yourself. Not now. When the time comes, we’ll… do our best.”

“I hope you mean me as well.”

The taller one froze. “She’s your wife.”

He didn’t need to explain.

A black car took them to Mycroft’s office only minutes after that. Sherlock’s brother received them with the most human-like face John had ever seen on him, his handshake tighter and his voice softer.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” was all the doctor could say.

The older Holmes nodded and with a hand gesture invited him into a heavily furnished room. Where he expected suited men with sunglasses and earpieces, there was only young Anthea, smiling at him and waving Emma’s chubby arm at his father.

Emma laughed preciously and flapped her arms trying to reach him.

John took her and raised her very high to take a good look at her and then kissed both her cheeks before pulling her into a tight hug. His heart was blissful again.

And Sherlock felt that himself. If only he could keep them both in a crystal box with nothing to harm them ever, he would, but Mycroft’s whole force would have to suffice.

They spent the afternoon there, with John pulling weird faces at his daughter and Sherlock saying things like “She really likes you”, to which John would reply: “Of course she does, I’m her daddy.” 

Sherlock paid them a quick visit at the hospital when Emma was born, but that was all the contact the detective and the baby had had in two months. He wasn’t at the flat that time they visited Baker Street, or the time after that. For two months Sherlock had been avoiding John and his family. While looking at the pair of them sitting together, John wished his friend would spend time with her more often, and it wasn’t the first time this happened that afternoon.

At one point, after John came back from the loo, he found his friend looking at Emma with a very concerned look. As he got closer he could see that next to her there was an apple.

“Sherlock?”

“I thought she was hungry but apparently she isn’t. I’m trying to figure out what else might be bothering her.” John couldn’t help but smile at something like that. He patted Sherlock on the shoulder a couple times, which had him even more confused. 

He then gave Anthea a look and she said: “We’ve got the baby food ready but I was really enjoying this.”

It was hard to say goodbye to her, Sherlock thought as they walked out the door two hours later. John didn’t look any better, but inside he also knew she would be safe there, and that was all that mattered.

Sherlock interrupted what was surely going to be a new stream of thoughts. “So, grocery shopping, you said?”

“Er… yeah… Yes, of course.” He smiled, a bit muddled.

The task laid on the detective to pick the items they needed given his friend was too absentminded to even be aware of the place they were at. He would give him thumbs up or a nod after everything Sherlock shoved before his face for approval, and one time, after repeating the action three times with no reaction at all, he put the can of beans back on the shelf and stared at the blonde until he came to.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, mate.”

Sherlock sighed and took the beans again to then place them inside the trolley, which was now almost full.

“It’s okay,” he replied as he started to push the trolley away towards the self-checkout machines. He said nothing else.

John stayed on his spot for a few more seconds and then he had to run to keep up with his friend.

“Want me to--?”

“It’s alright. I can manage,” Sherlock interrupted him, his expression immutable. John watched as he executed a task which should have been so simple, but still he couldn’t perform himself in his current state. 

He hated himself, he concluded as he ran a hand through his sandy hair.

“Let me help out,” John offered as the bags started to pile to a side. Sherlock just growled in reply.

They ended up carrying five bags each and John had no doubt Sherlock had the heaviest ones himself, though he didn’t dare to comment on this.

When they arrived at their street, they saw the lovely Mrs Hudson outside, sweeping the brownish leaves which announced autumn was already there.

“Oh, hello, boys. Why are you carrying all those bags?” He looked horrified for a second. “Are those…?”

“Just went grocery shopping,” Sherlock said rolling his eyes, and this apparently horrified her even more.

John let out a little laugh and Sherlock smiled at him as they offered their old landlady to refill her kitchen with the goods they’d bought her plus a few more as a treat. 

She was chuffed, and she even suggested they stayed for dinner, but Sherlock quickly interjected (not that John could have been quicker at replying).

“I was in fact about to suggest going out for a bite.” He turned to face John and it took the poor man a few long seconds to process what he had just heard.

“Sorry, what?”

“What you heard.” Mrs Hudson’s face was merely a smile.

John blinked a couple times at his friend and bit the insides of his mouth.

“Come and have dinner with me, John,” Sherlock insisted. “It’ll be fun.” His smile was a dashing and very confident one, but then he swallowed and his eyes looked troubled. He was ready to take the invitation back when the shorter one finally spoke.

“Right! Sure…” He took a deep breath. “I’d love to, yes.”

“Terrific,” Sherlock smirked again.

“It better be fun, though,” he teased.

The old woman was beaming at this point, holding her hands together on her chest while looking at the pair of them as though she was watching a ping pong match (the kind where the competitors were the stars of her favourite soap opera).

Sherlock Holmes looked away grinning in reply.

“Oh, I know just the place!” Sherlock assured the doctor as they walked up the stairs.

It took them about twenty minutes to get to their destination and when they finally did, Sherlock gave the cabbie a clearly random amount of notes and once they were out he told him to keep the change. Meanwhile, John was about to faint because of what was before him.

Simply the most beautiful place he had ever seen. It was a restaurant just by the shore of the Thames he had never walked by or heard of. Three floors tall, tables all over the place and candles hanging everywhere. Sure, the annoying chatter, characteristic of these places, was there but it wasn’t too loud, and there was cheesy music playing even outside.   
It most definitely was an expensive restaurant, the kind you would never go to unless you had to propose to someone, or take them on a first date.

“Well, yes, but we had plenty of those through the years and no, I’m not planning on proposing to you tonight.”

John went completely and helplessly red. “I said all that out loud, didn’t I?” 

He could hear Sherlock sigh. “I’m hoping you can clear that mind of yours for at least a few hours. Is that too much to ask? Two, thank you,” he said to the waiter, who guided them inside and up a small set of stairs leading to the first floor.

They were out on the balcony before John could take his mind out of the question Sherlock had just asked him. The fat short man offered them the menus and left once Sherlock signaled him they needed a few moments to decide what to order.

“So?” The detective inquired.

“Yes, this is a beautiful place, indeed,” John told him in a whisper, looking around at the people who occupied the three tables around them. “Wow, we have direct sight of the Thames from here. Are you sure we can afford this?”

“You’re not taking out a penny, this is on me,” Sherlock informed. “And that was not my question.”

John hid himself behind his menu.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“Can you?” His voice was demanding, more than inquisitive.

“I will try,” John finally said, and looked to his side at a woman who had just burst into an maddening laughter. Sherlock’s patience was starting to wear thin. He kicked him from under the table and John’s eyes were back on him instantly. “I will try,” he repeated.

“I need more than that.”

John laughed sarcastically. “Sherlock, look—“

“No, you look. John.” His friend’s voice sounded very weak when he called his name. John’s heart went just as weak at this. “Emma’s okay. Mary’s okay.” How could he be so sure? John didn’t argue, though. Sherlock continued. “We’ll work it out, I promise. You know her, she’s no fool, and she’s very skilled.”

“I’m not fucking five years old, Sherlock,” John confronted him, unable to contain it anymore. “Don’t give me the doctor talk on how high your hopes are and all that shit.”

“If you’re going to use that language we won’t last five more minutes here,” Sherlock warned. John took a long deep breath. “We’ll be with our arses on the pavement before you can say the fucking long starter names out loud.”

The blonde was belly laughing within seconds and as soon as he finished, Sherlock went: “If I can extend that for two more hours my work here will be done.” Getting no other reaction to that than a blank expression, he added: “When we have more news, we will act. Until then, I beg of you to try to stay on one piece.”

“Right, okay,” John granted and took a look at the list of overly fancy-named dishes available. “Holy Moses, which one of these is supposed to be a bloody burger, then?”

Sherlock laughed. “Definitely not the Ravioli Neri di Salmone Crema di Tonno.”

“That was a perfect accent you pulled off there, I must say.”

“Thank you. And we have yet to order the wine.”

“Ah, no. I want a beer, mate.”

“That’ll be a birra.”

“Hmm! I’m warning you I’ll have you reading me the whole menu later.”

“Whatever has you content…”

After about half an hour, their dishes were before them. John ended up choosing the ravioli and Sherlock what first sounded like duck to John but turned out to be something similar to sea food of some kind. Sherlock had forced him to ask for the birra himself, which resulted in the detective laughing for the rest of the evening every time John took his glass to take a sip.

They didn’t talk about anything in particular while they ate, but as John ordered his second, third, fourth beer, the element of nonsense in his comments grew dangerously.

“I can’t believe you’re drunk already,” observed Sherlock. “I’m starting to think your ravioli also had alcohol or something.”

“Pff,” John dismissed him. “No change you’re too sober yourself, with that vianno rossi.”

“Vino rosso,” his friend corrected him with a fond smile, “and I am sober.” His eyelids starting to feel heavy, though.

“What I said.” John leaned back on his chair, crossed his arms and contemplated his friend for long seconds, breathing deeply.

“I didn’t bring you to a place with this view” Sherlock signaled to the Thames on their left with his head, “for you to be looking at me instead, you know?”

John simply shrugged at the remark. Sherlock had to look away after another minute, and took a package of cigars out of his coat.

The army doctor raised one eyebrow. “I thought you’d quit?”

“I have. I quit holding back the temptation,” he threw his friend a killer smile and John felt his knees weaken. Surely that was the alcohol.

John seemed annoyed as he spat: “I thought I’d told you not to do that.”

“Do what?” Sherlock frowned as he lit the cigar and directed it to his mouth.

John moved too quickly for Sherlock to even predict his actions and closed the distance between them across the overly dressed round table, taking the cigar from between his thin pale fingers.

A very confused Sherlock stared as he took it to his mouth instead, breathing in and then, impossibly slowly, breathing out a thin stream of smoke, never breaking eye contact.   
Sherlock’s mouth parted open and took another cigar for himself, lighting it and interrupting the staring contest only to throw the smoke above them. Then his attention was utterly John’s once more.

They stayed like that for a good full minute, until the silence was broken by a comment Sherlock instantly regretted to have made: “Do her.”

“I beg your pardon?” John almost growled, tilting his head a bit and narrowing his eyes.

Sherlock laughed through his nose and tried to be more specific. “Let’s play deductions. You start. Start with her,” he said directing his eyes at the loud woman on the nearest table, who kept on laughing since their arrival. Sherlock wondered what could be so tremendously funny, coming from what seemed to be an evidently unfunny and disgusting old man. A rich man, obviously. Did she even have to laugh at his stupid jokes? He had already decided to marry her months ago, give her anything she wanted, and the proposal was to take place tonight, after they went for a ride on a fancy wagon pulled by two—no, one horse. Obviously.

“Feel like making fun of me, sweetheart?” John inquired turning back at him after what was clearly a failed attempt at reading something from her.

“Just tell me what you see, darling,”

John stared at him for a second and then made a very well, then face, getting up from his chair and carrying it all the way to Sherlock’s side.

“Is that your method to--?”

“Shut up, you annoying cock,” John caught him.

“What happened to sweetheart?”

“Right. She’s got massive breasts…” He whistled and then made a funny face. “Fake, obviously.”

“Good. Hadn’t noticed that.”

“You didn’t even look, sunshine.”

“And we’re back to the nicknames,” Sherlock whispered, smiling a bit nonetheless.


End file.
